The voices of people emerges in staccato over the hum of the AC.
Their morse coded speeches are punctured by the occasional burp from the depths of gastric melodies.
The sounds magnify and echo when I place the the loose flesh of my upper arm as a flap over the ear, hoping to sucker seal it shut, hoping that there existed an optional vestigial organ to do just that.
You wonder who these uncouth children are, who insert their plaintive queries into this hour, slicing sharply through your reverie. But then, their parents have spent hours revving their doubtlessly antiquated and pricelessly noisy vehicles, and you figure, they probably can't sleep too.
So you turn over once again, hoping feverishly that this time, somehow it'll work.
In this respect I always win. For my one ear, protected by cotton's muffling charms, can ignore the parade of garbage trucks and whistling watchmen with great ease, all to mull over the whining mosquitoes in peace.